Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “I can get you their contact information, Sergeant, but there’s no guarantee they’ll want to speak with you, nor are they obligated to.”

  “I’ll worry about that,” Byron said.

  The door to Branch’s office opened. “Devon, I just finished looking over the—Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were in a meeting.”

  “It’s okay,” Branch said. “Gerry and I were just speaking with Detective Sergeant Byron about Paul Ramsey. Sergeant, this is my wife, Lorraine.”

  Dressed in a formfitting gray skirt and cream-colored blouse, neither of which left much to the imagination, she was strikingly beautiful.

  Byron stood and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Branch.”

  “Actually, it’s Davies,” she said, giving him a firm and prolonged handshake and a smile of perfectly aligned teeth. Her steel blue eyes sparkled and her long blond hair framed an unblemished face.

  “My wife doesn’t believe in that taking the husband’s last name thing,” Branch said.

  “It’s a bit too old-fashioned for my liking, Sergeant. Stifling, really. I’m more of a progressive.” Davies released his hand. “Well, I don’t want to intrude. I’ll leave you gentlemen to it. We can go over this later, darling,” she said, waving a stack of papers at Branch. She turned her attention back to Byron. “A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Byron.”

  “Likewise.”

  Byron watched Davies walk back toward the door, in heels that were almost too long to be professional, before closing it softly behind her.

  “She’s smart, too,” Branch said, obviously having caught Byron’s wandering eye.

  “How’s that?” Byron said, seating himself back in the chair, trying to pretend he wasn’t checking her out.

  “I don’t blame you for looking but there’s more to her than meets the eye. Top of her class at Harvard. She’s only been here for six years and she’s already being considered for senior partner status. Isn’t that right, Gerry?”

  “It’s true,” DeWitt agreed.

  Probably didn’t hurt that she married a principal partner, Byron thought. He wondered how someone like Devon Branch had managed to end up with someone as beautiful and smart as Davies. If she was as bright as Branch indicated, she should have held out for a better husband. One that didn’t talk about her like she was some trophy he’d won.

  “Back to the matter at hand,” Branch said. “I must say, I am pleased to find you unwilling to give out information on this case. Are we to assume you’ll maintain the same discretion in dealing with the media? While I confess I’m not the least bit concerned with Paul Ramsey’s reputation, I am with this firm’s. And I’d prefer not having anything Paul may have done or been involved in sully the good name of Newman, Branch & DeWitt.”

  “Especially the Branch name, I imagine,” Byron said.

  Branch frowned again. “My father started this practice, Sergeant.”

  Byron studied the faces of both attorneys. “What exactly was Ramsey into that has you so worried?”

  Byron had learned long ago not to get caught up in the panic and maniacal behavior exhibited by some of the police command staff as they scurried about like ants after sugar, seeking immediate results. Slow and methodical was the only way to construct a solid murder case. As he often pointed out to the new detectives, investigating crimes after the fact is a far cry from responding to them as they’re actually occurring. And investigating homicides is an altogether different animal. There’s never a good reason to rush any aspect of an investigation; the victim is already dead. Rushing only leads to mistakes and mistakes lead to cases falling apart during the years of scrutiny that inevitably follow. Motions to exclude evidence, motions to overturn decisions, motions for new trials—so many things were out of Byron’s hands after he turned a case over to the courts. An airtight case was built one piece of evidence at a time until a formidable mountain had been constructed, impervious to judicial erosion. Byron’s motto had always been: Be as thorough as possible while you still have control.

  Byron left Branch’s office with more questions than answers, but he had obtained the information necessary to follow up on two different leads: Childress, the building contractor who’d made repeated threats against Ramsey, and Justin and Paula Elwell, plaintiffs in the recently lost civil trial. Both had lost a child and although Ramsey wasn’t responsible for either he had played a hand in how both cases were resolved. And neither party was happy with the resolution.

  According to the article Byron had read in the Portland Herald, written by Davis Billingslea, the Elwells had brought suit against Maine Medical Center, charging that their son was misdiagnosed by one of the hospital’s specialists. That surgeon elected to remove their son’s spleen. What the Elwells deemed an unnecessary surgery resulted in complications which caused their seventeen-year-old son, Robbie, to lapse into a coma. Following a three-week stint in intensive care, with intravenous feeding, Robbie died. Ramsey filed the malpractice suit on behalf of the Elwells, seeking ten million in damages.

  Had the Elwells’ loss driven them over the edge? Byron wondered. Had someone in the family felt wronged enough to kill? If so, was the surgeon now in danger?

  He clicked the remote, unlocking the doors to the Malibu, and was climbing inside when he noticed a parking citation pinned beneath the windshield wiper.

  Fuckin’ Greene, he thought as he snatched up the ticket. Sure enough, the parking control Nazi’s badge number, 121, was penned in next to an expired meter violation.

  “It wasn’t expired, dumb-ass,” Byron said. “Can’t be expired if I never paid.”

  He reached across the console and crammed it into the glove box along with the others. As he inserted the key into the ignition, his cell rang. Detective Mike Nugent.

  “Hey, Nuge.”

  “Calling to see if you could use a little help with Ramsey.”

  “Indeed, I could. Where are you?”

  “Mel and I are just leaving 109. Wanna meet up?”

  Byron checked his watch. It was only ten-thirty but his stomach was already grumbling over the lack of breakfast. “How about Becky’s Diner?”

  “See you there, Sarge.”

  Chapter Ten

  Friday, 10:40 a.m., April 29, 2016

  Dickens’s Scrooge had been warned by Marley that the spirit within every man was required to go out and walk far and wide in support of his fellow men, and if not in life they would be condemned to do so after death. As Byron sat at the Commercial Street diner, sipping hot coffee from a chipped white and blue ceramic mug, he couldn’t help wondering what Ramsey’s condemnation might look like.

  He’d commandeered an empty booth at the rear allowing him to sit with his back to the wall. The habit of positioning oneself for a tactical advantage was second nature to any veteran cop, an automatic reflex like breathing or blinking. He never consciously thought about it until someone said something. Kay, his ex, had always teased him for it and would often intentionally grab the seat she knew he’d want when they went out. Taking him out of his comfort zone, she’d called it.

  Why the hell are you thinking about Kay? He didn’t know, but she’d been occupying his thoughts a lot of late. Perhaps it was some psychobabble ex-spouse PTSD, he thought. Whatever the reason, he didn’t need Kay taking up space in his head. He had enough going on up there as it was.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Detective Melissa Stevens said as she and Nugent slid into the booth across from Byron.

  Stevens and Nugent had been an unlikely pairing as partners. Stevens was single, gay, and paid homage to her no-nonsense attitude by wearing her blond hair short and spiky. Nugent, on the other hand, was follicularly challenged, married, with two kids, and had a truckload of inappropriate vaudevillian humor always at the ready, the likes of which would have made Henny Youngman proud. The two detectives had asked to be assigned together following the retirement of Detective Ray Humphrey, Byron’s one-time mentor and friend. They say opposites attract, but
at the time Byron had merely considered it an experiment. He’d never imagined it would actually take, and yet somehow it had.

  “So Paul Ramsey finally got his, huh?” Stevens said.

  “Saints be praised,” Nugent said, speaking in an improvised Irish brogue. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

  “How’d he buy it?” Stevens asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  Byron pointed at his own forehead making an L with his index finger and thumb. “Handgun. Close range.”

  “Yowch, that leaves a mark,” Nugent said. “Where’s Diane?”

  “Ah, I don’t know,” Byron said, momentarily dropping his guard and allowing his frustration to show. “The lieutenant’s got her doing some secret errand or something.”

  He saw Stevens and Nugent exchange a quick glance, but neither commented.

  A no-nonsense waitress with curly black hair strolled up to the table with a fresh carafe of caffeine. She wordlessly held it up and both detectives nodded. “Either of you eating?” she asked.

  Both responded in the negative.

  After flipping their mugs upright and pouring, she topped off Byron’s then departed.

  “So, what’s the latest?” Stevens asked.

  Between cups of coffee and a heaping plate of corned beef hash, scrambled eggs, and home fries, Byron brought both detectives up to speed, recapping the previous day’s recovery dive, right through his meetings with Stanton and Branch.

  “Nice to see the chief didn’t waste any time sticking his nose in,” Stevens said.

  Byron couldn’t have agreed more, but resisted the urge to comment, burying his thoughts under a forkful of hash.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Nugent asked.

  “As soon as Diane’s finished doing whatever it is she’s doing, we’re gonna head down to Kennebunkport,” Byron said.

  “What’s in Kennebunkport?” Stevens asked.

  “Matt Childress.”

  “Who’s he?” both detectives asked at once.

  “Some big-time York County commercial building contractor.”

  “Never heard of him,” Nugent said.

  “Lost his daughter in a drunk driving accident,” Byron said. “Sounds like her fiancé was probably driving but Ramsey got him off at trial.”

  “There’s a shocker,” Nugent said. “Hey, how many jurors does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

  Stevens rolled her eyes at her partner’s inappropriateness.

  “Anyway,” Byron continued unabated. “According to Branch, Childress has been threatening Ramsey. Blames him for getting the fiancé off.”

  “I blame the educational system,” Nugent said as he reached over and stole one of Byron’s home fries.

  “Where would you like Nuge and me to start, Sarge?” Stevens asked, ignoring him.

  “Why don’t you see if you can find the asshole from the Red Fox, Donny McVail.”

  Byron was still pissed that Diane wouldn’t divulge the secret errand she’d been sent on as they drove into the town of Kennebunkport, but he was trying hard not to show it.

  “This looks like the place,” Diane said.

  Byron looked up at the large black and white Childress Construction banner hanging on the side of the unfinished building. He turned left off Route 9 onto the packed gravel drive, which, at least according to the sign, would eventually be the corporate headquarters of Down East Credit Union. “I’d say Mr. Childress is a little more than some guy who occasionally gets drunk and leaves threatening messages.”

  “Think Branch underestimated him?” she asked.

  “A bit. How much do you figure this project is worth?”

  “Millions.”

  Byron slowed to let a large flatbed delivery truck cross in front of them before continuing on. He guided the unmarked Chevy toward the center of the dusty lot and a group of long white trailers. The trailers were the kind used by contractors as mobile offices. He parked between two oversized green pickups, each possessing dual rear wheels and bearing the Childress company logo on their doors. The registration plates bore commercial variants of CCC—Childress Construction Company—followed by a number. One of the plates read “CCC-1.” Byron guessed it was Childress’s truck. Mounted to the windshield of the truck was a blue E-ZPass device. Byron despised the blue ones as they tended to make every vehicle look like an undercover police vehicle. The truck was also tricked out with extra chrome not affixed to any of the others.

  The two detectives climbed the mud-caked steps to a makeshift plywood platform. Byron banged on the dented aluminum trailer door.

  “Come!” a brusque male voice said from inside.

  They stepped into the cramped and cluttered trailer. A burly unshaven male with a sunburned face was stooped over a metal bench, looking at blueprints. He wore brown Carhartt pants, tan work boots, and a tight-fitting green T-shirt emblazoned with the Childress logo.

  Fuck, I hope this isn’t him, Byron thought as he studied the veins on his bulging biceps.

  “Help ya?” the man said, standing upright as he turned to face them.

  They both produced their department IDs and badges.

  “We’re looking for Matthew Childress,” Byron said.

  “You found him,” Childress said.

  The driver license info they’d obtained from Maine’s Bureau of Motor Vehicles obviously hadn’t been updated. Childress was taller than Byron by several inches, making him at least six foot seven. Byron guessed his weight to be in the neighborhood of 275, none of which appeared flabby. Byron wished they’d brought the entire detective division, maybe even a couple of uniformed backups.

  Childress’s eyes moved from Byron to Diane, where they lingered before returning to Byron. “What’d he do now?”

  “Who?” Diane said as she pocketed her credentials.

  “Mattie Junior. Figure if you’re from Portland, he’s done something stupid again. Fuckin’ Old Port is the bane of my goddamned existence.”

  Byron exchanged looks with Diane then quickly scanned the room for weapons. The closest thing he could find was a nylon tool belt with a hammer, lying on a table about five feet away from the big man.

  Childress leaned back against the bench and folded his arms across his expansive chest. “The wife and I don’t pay all that tuition to the University of Send Me Money so he can major in fuckin’ barhopping. So, what’s he done?”

  “Mr. Childress, my name is Detective Sergeant Byron and this is Detective Joyner. We’re not here about your son.”

  Childress raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “We came to speak with you,” Byron said.

  “Me?”

  Byron kept an eye on Childress’s hands. He knew if there was a point at which this interview was likely to go to shit, they’d reached it.

  “We’re investigating the death of Paul Ramsey,” Diane said.

  Childress’s mouth spread into a grin that Byron wasn’t sure how to take.

  “Heard they found that piece of shit dead,” Childress said matter-of-factly. “Can’t say that breaks my fucking heart.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Byron asked.

  “On the radio this morning. How’d he die?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Diane said.

  “We fished him out of Casco Bay yesterday,” Byron said.

  “And now you’re here because you think I killed him, right?” Childress said.

  “We don’t think anything, Mr. Childress,” Byron said. “But we do know you have a history with the deceased.”

  “A history? Is that what I have?” Childress looked toward the floor and rubbed his right hand over his beard stubble.

  Byron was on guard, waiting for any sudden move on Childress’s part. He knew from Diane’s body language that she was ready too.

  “Mr. Childress, where were you Tuesday night?” Byron asked.

  Melissa Stevens was scanning the visitor’s computer monitor in the Records Division on the second floor of 109, while Nugent pl
ayed with one of the Lektrievers occupying the middle of the room. The giant storage unit’s resemblance to supermarket rotisserie ovens ended with the thousands of police file folders crammed inside, that and the absence of the aroma of roast chicken.

  “Wish I’d invented this stupid thing,” Nugent said as he continued to play with the rocker switch, periodically reversing the direction the shelves rotated. “I’d be rich.”

  “Okay, I got something,” Stevens said.

  “Give me a number,” Nugent said.

  “Fifteen dash thirteen one eighty-five. Looks like his latest arrest. Disorderly and possession.”

  Nugent brought the Lektriever to a stop on one of the shelves containing the 2015 case files. He scanned the folders until he located the corresponding numbers then pulled the file.

  “Find it?” Stevens asked.

  “I think so. Yup, here it is. Donald McVail, arrested for disorderly and possession of a controlled substance. Says here he’s on probation.”

  “Good. What about a work or home address?”

  “Uh-huh, both. Gotcha, douchebag.”

  A half hour later Byron and Diane sat at a red light in the left-turn lane of Route 1 in Biddeford, waiting to jump on the turnpike toward Portland.

  “You believe him?” Diane asked.

  “He didn’t seem all that surprised to see us,” Byron said.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Diane punched redial on her cell and put the phone to her ear. “It’s still going to voicemail.”

  “So, either Childress’s alibi has his phone off or he’s on the phone right now, getting his story straight. Either way, it won’t be worth much.” Byron pulled out his cell and dialed Nugent. “Nuge, it’s Byron. Any luck locating McVail?”

  “Not yet. We found his apartment but he wasn’t answering. Mel’s talking with a friend of his who may know where he works.”

  “Didn’t we have a work address from his last arrest?”

  “We did, but he got canned from that job right after the arrest. He’s on probation but his PO hasn’t called back yet.”

  “Give Tran a buzz. He’s like a hound dog.”